The Referee is fire - on rules, failure and learning the hard way.

Hi Laurie,

Do you ever find working with a single material (earth, dirt, mud, clay) restrictive or is it a way to avoid the terrible infinity of blank pageness? Liberating in its own way?

Stefan Eagle,

Dear Stefan,

I collect euphoric moments in my journal, those occasional feelings of easy bliss and contentment. Over the years a clear trend has emerged. The enormous majority of these fleeting moments occur when I am working in my pottery, listening to music with a cup of tea. Knowing this means that I know how to be happy or at least, at relative peace. It’s an easy formula which I regularly forget to follow. I share this to illustrate clay's intrinsic value to me beyond a simple medium and offer it as a potential antidote for others.

Working with clay can be challenging (Insert here: the plethora of technical tragedies that can befall the humble potter i.e. cracking, slumping, exploding etc). Despite this I find these challenges both reassuring and grounding, like working with an ancient, omniferous mammal. Some of my happiest memories have been sitting beside a river making pinch pots straight from the bank. Just me and a blob of rotting stardust, chilling in eternity.

But pottery is a masochist’s game. There are a small handful of basic rules required to make the jump from clay to ceramic - earth to stone. These could be viewed as restrictions, and perhaps I thought of them in that way early on, but now I think of them more as boundaries. Like the edge of a playing field.

You can try and bend the rules but the referee is the fire. Disasters in ceramics are fundamental to learning and the kiln is an old fashioned teacher with a big stick. If you get too lazy or too cocky it will fuck you up. It may be restrictive in that it is not for the fainthearted. It's an anarchist's agreement. The potter agrees to be tested by fire and the kiln punishes insolence. If you stray too far from the canon you're going to take a beating. I have had my share, deserved every one, and improved as a result. For every pot I’ve blown up I’ve made better ones that survive.

I am an inherently disobedient person and need a few strong boundaries to balance my occasionally self destructive tendencies. Restrictions can be surprisingly liberating. Raw energy and enthusiasm without direction can be a dangerous mix. Those of us who burn hot eventually melt if we don’t pace ourselves. Ceramics practice gives me an open frame work to play in without being so loose as to be rudderless.

When I pot I don’t expect magic to happen. I never set out to make a masterpiece. I just make stuff. Some of it comes out great and some comes out unbelievably shit. I keep the good stuff and I put the shit in the slops bucket (which ironically will form the next batch of clay and may go on to make a great pot in the future). Because clay can be recycled indefinitely there is essentially no cost other than time, which becomes ridiculous when you consider that your dance partner is 100 million years old. 

Stefan, there is no “terrible infinity of blankpageness” in pottery. There is no empty canvas staring back at you. Clay doesn't mind if you make a mistake. It doesn't care if it ends up spending 10,000 years as a toilet bowl or a decorative chicken. It’s probably a nice change from being a rock. So I counsel action! Stop fretting and start potting. That's what I do. Crack on. And if you’re having trouble getting started try lowering your expectations. Mop the floor. Clean your wheel. Make a cup of tea. Relax. Anything you make is good if you enjoy making it. Hit the music!

XL